


Limits

by morganasmyths



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Protective John, i like john in this, i literally just make one character evil per story and this time its sally, oh yeah john is pretty cool in this one too, sally is a bitch sorry, you all know the drill all i write is fluff and a bit of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-25 20:55:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10772253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganasmyths/pseuds/morganasmyths
Summary: Sally Donovan takes delight in teasing Sherlock and doing her best to insult him, hurt him and royally piss him off. What she doesn’t know is the effects her words have upon him, and Lestrade frequently finds himself helping Sherlock deal with his pain that’s concealed under layers of icy glares and frosty words. However, when Donovan blurts out Sherlock’s greatest secret for all to hear, she pushes his limits too far. Little does she know, it’s not only Sherlock’s limits that she’s crossed.





	Limits

**Author's Note:**

> Welp, she returns.
> 
> With... More fluff and angst who saw that coming lol whatever just enjoy I write as an outlet so who actually cares if it's tooth-rottingly sweet it just makes me feel better soooo
> 
> Yeah just enjoy xx

“Oi! Freak! Greg wants you,” Donovan cackled loudly without looking up from her phone. Sherlock didn’t reply, but made his way from examining the dead body over to where Lestrade was ending his conversation with the husband of the deceased. 

“Any ideas?” he asked as Sherlock approached. Sherlock glanced at the body.

“A few,” he said. “Bullet through the centre of the skull, death was instantaneous. A small part of the flesh around the wound is charred and burnt, so clearly someone held the gun directly to her head.”

“That’s where it gets interesting,” Lestrade said. “Because it seems that she was the only one here at the time of the murder. Suicide?”

“Not a chance,” Sherlock shook his head. “Where’s the weapon?” 

Lestrade cocked an eyebrow and held up a bag with a gun in it.

“Ah.”

“Found in her hands.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

There was a moment of silence.

“Alright genius,” Lestrade sighed. “Explain to me why it was murder.”

Sherlock suppressed a smirk. “She’s lying on her back.”

“And?”

“Her knees are weak; there are visible lines from where she wears knee supports regularly. If she had shot herself, her knees would have collapsed in on themselves and she would have fallen forward. Additionally, her dress is dry. It rained this time yesterday and she has definitely been dead for more than twenty-four hours.”

“Ugh, you know those things aren’t much to go with?” Donovan sneered, walking over to the two of them. “It could still be suicide.”

“Then please tell me why,” Sherlock retorted quickly. Donovan smirked, glad that she was getting to the other side of his temper. 

“Her marriage was failing – ask the husband. He admits it,” she said. 

“Yeah, he admits it,” Lestrade said pointedly. “Doesn’t mean she did.”

“Judging by the cleanliness of her wedding ring I would even presume that she took great pride in her marriage,” Sherlock said. Donovan rolled her eyes and her steely glare returned. When she wasn’t looking Lestrade squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder lightly. It was just a small token of support but Sherlock appreciated it. Lestrade understood that he wasn’t sociopathic, even if Donovan couldn’t come to that conclusion. 

Then walked over to join the others who were discussing the autopsy dates of recent corpses and how that would affect this one. 

“Speaking of doctors, where is John?” Anderson whined in his own special nasal way. Sherlock shrugged.

“He’s at home.”

“Why?”

“Yeah I missed the more tolerable one,” Donovan sniggered. It was a comment that should have been whispered but she made no attempt to do so. Sherlock swallowed but kept his glare frosty.

“He’s ill. He’d only get worse if he came.”

Everyone else accepted this but Donovan’s eyebrows creased together. She said nothing but she looked at Sherlock weirdly before moving on. 

-

Sherlock returned home to a grumpy John. 

“You were on the news today,” he said.

“Oh?”

“They were broadcasting the murder and had a helicopter shot of the crime scene. They interviewed Lestrade.”

“I’m sure he said something remarkably intelligent.”

John rolled his eyes. “It was fine.”

“Then why are you grumpy at me?”

“Because it looked like a bloody good one!” John cried and Sherlock laughed at that. He went to the kitchen to make them tea.

“Feeling any better?” he called. John sneezed in reply.

“I see,” Sherlock said, bringing over the tea. John accepted it gratefully. He slumped in his chair and closed his eyes.

“Long day?” John asked, taking a sip of the tea.

“Very,” he murmured in reply. He could feel John’s eyes on him and quickly decided to do something before he started blushing. He got up and went over to the hearth and began layering logs and kindling. This way John couldn’t see his face and besides, he needed to be kept warm. 

He noticed John’s positive reaction to the crackling fire as he snuggled further into his armchair. Sherlock noted that he looked very tired. Had he slept today? Or was his body just struggling to cure him? Either way a Chinese takeaway seemed to sound like a good solution so he ordered them some. 

As the time passed, John’s book kept slipping from his hands, as though his grip were weakening. He was definitely tired: his eyes were struggling to stay open. Sherlock observed him with a cocked head, shamelessly studying every part of him until John broke the comfortable silence between them.

“I can feel you watching me.”

Sherlock burned a bright shade of red. Conveniently the doorbell went, giving him the perfect excuse to leave the room. John’s face lit up when he saw the food and they ate together, John listening intently to Sherlock’s recount of the day’s case. By the time they’d finished John looked even drowsier than before. He settled back into his armchair with his eyes closed as Sherlock cleared the plates away. He gazed at John’s slumbering form, debating how it may be too cruel to move him when he was so tired.

His conclusion was to go up to John’s room and retrieve his duvet. It’s not technically that good for oneself to sleep in an armchair but Sherlock didn’t have the heart to demand such tedious precautions when John looked so content. He came back downstairs and arranged – by arranged we mean flung – the duvet over him, tucking in the sides.

John’s eyes fluttered slightly, wondering what the hell was happening but Sherlock just shushed him. He curled into the duvet, bringing it up to his chin and soon after his breathing evened into sleep. Sherlock took a moment to admire to beautiful man in front of him and for that moment he let his heart ache before turning away to poke at the fire a little more.  
-  
They hadn’t said anything when they woke the next morning, John in his armchair, Sherlock curled up sideways in his. John had almost laughed at loud in wonder as to how the man had managed to make himself so small. The humour quickly fell short as John realised that there was a distinct chill in the air of the flat and Sherlock was sleeping with not so much as a blanket. 

The illness was all about gone in John, only a few minor symptoms here and there but he wasn’t feeling even half as tired as he had been yesterday. That’s what he hated about being ill – it always completely wiped him out and rendered him useless. 

A cold draught of air brought John’s attention to the open window and he shivered in response. Sherlock must be freezing. He stood slowly, trying not to wake the sleeping man, and gently placed his duvet over him. He looked so peaceful when he was asleep, as though his mind was finally as rest. Gingerly, John brushed the back of his hand over Sherlock’s cheek... Just to check the temperature of course. Ice cold, as he had feared, but surprisingly soft and he couldn’t resist doing it once more.

Then he walked over to the window and closed it as quietly as he could, shivering once again at being in such close proximity with it. He began to wonder why it had even been open in the first place when his gaze caught on a half-filled ash tray. 

Still it seemed odd for Sherlock to forget to close it – maybe his mind had just been racing last night. Lord knows what he thinks about in the early hours of the morning.  
The time on the oven read half past four in the afternoon, but the time on the oven was notoriously known for being very wrong, so John was forced to make the ever exhausting journey upstairs to his bedroom where he had left his watch. He hardly ever wore it anymore – it was a nice one, a present from Sherlock a few years ago – and he didn’t want to damage it. Nevertheless, he kept it close on his bedside table and only wore it out if he knew there wasn’t going to be any danger. 

The watch read quarter to eight in the morning, which seemed far more likely to be true. But it also meant that regardless of what time he went to sleep, Sherlock would be waking up in the near future as he never slept past nine o’clock – not unless he was ill or hadn’t slept in weeks (which he had, John had been checking). 

Sure enough, as he returned downstairs, Sherlock’s sleep was noticeably lighter. He was shuffling subconsciously in his chair, his body now reacting to the fact that it was in quite an uncomfortable position, no matter how much it tried to convince itself that it wasn’t so. Additionally his eyelids were twitching – either dreaming or responding to the light. John may not be a detective, but he understood bodily processes as well as the next doctor. 

He decided that making tea and breakfast seemed an appropriate course of action. He swore repeatedly at the kettle in hushed tones for making so much bloody noise amidst the tranquil silence of the flat, and altogether gave up on trying to ‘silently’ turn on the hob. It just wasn’t happening. 

Sherlock woke up a few moments later, hair ruffled and red lines streaked across his cheeks where the creases in the leather of the chair had pressed against his face. He looked truly beautiful. 

“Ah, tea,” he mumbled, but it came out muffled and almost unidentifiable. Luckily for him, John was fluent in Sherlock’s groggy-morning-language, and without hesitating passed him a cup. His phone pinged.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock said, his voice much clearer but still deep from sleep. “He says there’s another body, same position as the one yesterday.” John could hear his excitement escalating in those few words. 

“A serial killer – your favourite,” John commented.

“And you can actually come today too my - this is fantastic!” Sherlock exclaimed all rather too quickly, leaping from his chair. “A serial killer John! Oh it’s getting interesting...” The man had a rather impressive amount of energy considering his very recent awakening from sleep. John, on the other hand, was struggling to make it out of his armchair having gotten back in it. 

“Hmm, yes fantastic,” John murmured. “Perhaps we could have half an hour to wake up?”

“Tedious, come on, we’ve got a murder to solve,” Sherlock said, stalking to his room to get dressed. John sighed and rolled his eyes, but a small smile twitched at the corner of his lips as he too went to put on some proper clothes. 

-

Donovan was waiting for them at the crime scene with her usual sneer. Sherlock was beyond fed up with her insults, right the way through to almost getting offended by them. At least John was with him this time; he usually suffered less when John was there.

Not today. 

No, today Donovan seemed especially off. She greeted Sherlock with little more than: “Oh. Look what retard decided to show his face.”

Sherlock ignored it to begin with and followed Lestrade to the body, but her taunts became increasingly difficult to avoid when different members of the Yard and autopsy team all started whispering as he passed them, with several mentions to him being “the one that Donovan told them about”. 

Every time they passed he simply swallowed a retort, knowing it would do him no good. Occasionally he saw John glare at a few of them with such hatred that they didn’t dare look at him further. Sherlock smiled when he did that. It made him feel strangely protected, a feeling he wasn’t exactly used to. It was nice. 

He explained his leads to Lestrade and turned to go when he heard Donovan speaking to a couple paramedics. 

“I cannot wait for the day John leaves him,” she said. “John’s going to be a much happier man.” 

The paramedics laughed and something in Sherlock’s stomach dropped. Donovan caught his eye. 

“I’m surprised he hasn’t left already.”

“I’ll bet you twenty he’ll leave within the month,” one of the paramedics joked. He was completely unaware that Sherlock was listening. He wasn’t even mean to Sherlock; at least, he hadn’t been previously. Sherlock looked away as thought of John leaving 221B burned furiously behind his eyes. 

When he looked back Donovan’s smirk had increased but this time it was more menacing, as though she knew something he didn’t. It scared him. She didn’t look like she was just here to tease him anyone and it scared him. Yes, Sherlock Holmes was scared. 

It was at this point Sherlock realised he had stopped walking. He started again, lifting his head to look around for John, not missing Donovan say one last thing.  
“You know what? I’d bet a lot of money he won’t last until the end of this week.”  
-  
Lestrade caught up with John in Baker Street to go over the case reports. It had been one of those murders where Sherlock had solved it by simply looking at the body in his own incredible way. John expressed these views to Lestrade who agreed completely. 

“I’m scared that not all your officers see it that way though,” John said. 

Lestrade gave him an apologetic look. “Sally has been especially rude to him. I’ve tried talking to her but she just won’t quit.”

“I suspect they’re in some kind of pride war,” John sighed. “Neither will back down but she’s becoming relentless. We both know this hurts Sherlock.”

At the sound of the front door opening they hastily changed the topic to the case reports. Lestrade stayed a little longer to talk to Sherlock about the case, so John headed upstairs with his laptop to begin drafting it up on his blog. Sometimes it was best to leave those two. 

Half an hour after Lestrade left, he came back downstairs in search of tea and was pleasantly surprised to find one waiting by his armchair. 

“You... Made tea?” he said slowly. He hadn’t meant for it to sound like a question but it came out like one. 

“It’s been several hours since your last cup I figured you’d want one right about now,” Sherlock replied without looking up from his laptop. John smiled to himself and gratefully took it.

“If this is going to become a regular thing I could get used to it,” John commented, falling into his armchair. “Any good new discoveries in your experiments recently?” he asked, taking a sip. Sherlock’s gaze flickered upwards.

“A few,” he said. “The experiment with the veins went well. The dilation and contraction times were vital to Kyle Thompson’s alibi in that old warehouse case.”

“Oh the one with all the innards strewn on the floor?” John asked. He remembered a couple weeks ago Sherlock had left in the middle of the night and returned with a new case. He hadn’t woken John, saying that John hadn’t slept well recently. It was true, John had been having nightmares again and sleep was more of a blessing than a custom right now. Trust Sherlock to notice.

The said man hummed in confirmation at John’s last statement.

“So, was he guilty?”

“No, but he was definitely involved with the sister-in-law,” he murmured, perhaps more to himself than to John but John didn’t mind. It was sort of endearing to watch him think sometimes, especially when he wasn’t aware he was being watched. 

Eventually his felt eyes on him and his gaze lifted slowly to John’s, who blushed a bright shade of red and apologised for staring. 

“No, no, it’s fine...” Sherlock trailed off. There was something in the way Sherlock was looking at him, John couldn’t place it, but it made him feel warm. Eventually he stood from his armchair, breaking into a fast mumble about what to do for dinner. He fetched his laptop from upstairs along with his phone and ordered them a Thai takeaway. Sherlock was hardly fussy, he surely wouldn’t mind what John ordered so long as he was allowed to steal some of John’s.

-

Something odd happened later that night. It wasn’t odd as in uncomfortable, it was odd as in had never happened before.

It was late, after dinner, and they had both drunk a little more than usual. They tended to biweekly and usually on a Thursday. They found themselves on the sofa watching crap television and laughing at all the stupid people. At some point Sherlock’s head had lulled onto John’s shoulder, but neither had corrected it and both quite enjoyed its presence there. 

They carried on drinking and they carried on laughing until the lateness of the night turning into the earliness of the morning and a need for sleep began to gently press on their eyelids. It dragged their limbs into sleepy submission over one another until they were cuddling shamelessly on the sofa.

Sherlock was long since asleep and John felt that dark edges of drowsiness begin to take over. He felt arms around him and had his arms around Sherlock. He wasn’t entirely sure where his legs ended and Sherlock’s began, but he felt Sherlock’s head nestled into his neck and it was warm and close but he loved the intimacy. 

And so, it wasn’t odd as in uncomfortable, it was odd as in had never happened before. Quite the opposite in fact, John thought. He thought he really liked it here. 

-

John almost groaned out loud when he saw Sally waiting for Sherlock with a smirk across her face later that week. He would’ve walked up to her and slapped it off her on the spot if Sherlock hadn’t sharply pulled him in the other direction towards Lestrade and the dead body. 

But Sally didn’t stop. She followed the around and the worst part was she was absolutely silent. She simply watched the, a smug expression plastered on her face. When she called Sherlock over John’s blood ran cold for a second. He began to go with Sherlock but Sally stopped him and dragged Sherlock away. 

John watched them, setting his jaw. Anger spat in his stomach like hot oil and he clasped his hands tightly behind his back to stop himself running over there. He felt his heart drop and eyes go cold when Sherlock’s face visibly paled at Sally’s words. He tried to correct himself but it was too late, she simply sauntered away half laughing. 

Sherlock’s expression was unreadable. His face was furious but his eyes were wide and scared. John had never seen him look so... Vulnerable. It was a terrifying thought, the occasional realisation that Sherlock Holmes was skin and bones and emotions just like the rest of the world, and John hated too see him so upset.

The anger in his stomach boiled a little more violently. 

“What did she say to you?” he asked sharply when Sherlock returned to his side, swallowing back any further remarks. 

“Nothing of importance,” Sherlock muttered, not meeting his gaze. John’s hands clenched behind his back as he jutted his head upwards towards the body; he didn’t say anything else. 

“Cause of death but gunshot wound to the head, similar to the girl earlier this week...” Sherlock began deducing the crime scene properly to Lestrade but John tuned out quickly after he caught Sally’s gaze across the road. She was looking at him weirdly – not pity, but something of the sort, mixed with her usual smugness. 

John glared at her, but hastily looked away when her gaze didn’t waver. What could she have possibly said to Sherlock that would provoke that sort of reaction? Normally he would never let his emotions show that visibly. When he looked back up he caught Sherlock looking at him. If Sherlock blushed, neither mentioned it.

“Are you hungry?” he asked. John concluded that they were just going to ignore Sherlock’s strange slip-up. John nodded in reply, still feeling tense and dinner with Sherlock sounded exactly like the sort of thing that would make him feel better. 

-

“You have a date?” Sherlock repeated, still looking as confused as the first time he asked to confirm.

“Uh yeah,” John replied awkwardly, scratching the back of his head.

“First one in a while...”

“I know.”

There was silent for a moment. John sucked in his lips and avoided looking at Sherlock altogether. 

“Well, uh, I’m just gonna...” John mumbled incoherently gesturing vaguely towards his jacket then the door.

“Uh yeah well... Have fun...” Sherlock said with a similar level of uncertainty about what he was actually saying. Despite the fact that they had both agreed that John should probably go, for some reason he didn’t. His legs just wouldn’t carry him away despite how the rest of his body ached to be out of this strange tense atmosphere that shouldn’t exist. 

He swallowed, looking around the room once again. He could feel Sherlock watching him. The air was heavy. He pretended he didn’t know Sherlock was watching him.  
Eventually he managed to walk to the door and walked out before he could linger uncomfortably any more. He quickly hailed a cab and once inside, let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding in. When had it become so hard to leave Sherlock? 

John felt guilty and he didn’t know why. All he knew was that every fibre of his body had been screaming at him to stay and to go at the same time – he felt duty bound to both. John sighed and put his head in his hands. He couldn’t get Sherlock’s face out of his head. 

-

The date was a disaster. Thankfully, Sherlock didn’t mention that. He obviously knew. John just hadn’t been able to focus on anything Tara had been saying. She was a lovely girl and quickly figured out that something was on his mind. They wrapped up the date awkwardly and she asked him to text.  
John had no intention to. He had just wanted to go home to Sherlock. 

He heard the violin from before he opened the door. He smiled to himself, relishing in the music as he made his way upwards into the flat. He opened the door and dropped his coat off his shoulders, turning to face Sherlock and ask him whether he wanted a cup of tea but his breath caught in his throat.

Sherlock had turned to face him and the night time glow of the moon had caught half of his face and bathed it in a beautiful, ethereal light. It hollowed out his jaw and cheekbones and smoothed the skin and for a moment John’s mind went completely blank. Sherlock’s eyes were bright in the moonlight and his lips slightly parted in a small smile that was saved only for John.

This. This is why he hadn’t wanted to leave. He just wanted Sherlock. 

The realisation hit him ice cold like a wave of the ocean crashes onto the shore. Relentless, but it felt natural and expected, as though he had been waiting for it for a long time. He didn’t feel burdened with the knowledge of his love for Sherlock, but rather lighter, as though the world seemed suddenly a little brighter in the moonlight. 

He wasn’t entirely sure how long he had been standing there, but he ended up just going into the kitchen and making two cups of tea without actually asking. He walked over to stand next to Sherlock and handed him a mug.

They stood, side by side, just gazing out the window. Sherlock had a small smile on his face and for the first time that evening, so did John. This felt right. This felt natural.  
He looked up at Sherlock, who, sensing his movement, turned his head to gaze down at John. For the briefest of moments their eyes met until they both looked back out onto the street. The tense atmosphere was all but gone and in that moment they were as light as moonlight. There was a mutual understanding that there was something here, and they couldn’t place it but they didn’t have to.

It was just nice to be here.

-

The case continued on Sunday. Sherlock was physically shaking when he reached the crime scene. He hadn’t forgotten Donovan’s threat about John leaving before the end of the week, and the moment by the window last night had made him realise with all his heart how much he needed him to stay.

But Donovan didn’t understand that, and she was ruthless in her tormenting. She attempted another insult upon his arrival but he simply tossed one back. Her eyes hardened.  
He felt John tense beside him but thought nothing of it. He’d probably just seen the body – a particularly gruesome one. It didn’t take long, however, and Sherlock was on a real lead with the elder brother, as he explained to Lestrade. 

He and John were getting ready to go and investigate further as a suspect’s house when Sally stopped them on their way out.

“Why are you taking John with you, Sherlock?” Sally said, though it didn’t sound like a question. Sherlock froze. This was it – this was her plan. He needed to get out of here before she said anymore.

“Because he wants to come,” he replied quickly before turning to John. “Come on, let’s get out of here-“

“Hmm, I disagree,” Sally continued. Sherlock’s heart was hammering against his chest. She couldn’t say it, she just couldn’t. He couldn’t lose John. 

“Actually, that’s the truth, so back off,” John snapped, stepping in front of Sherlock and between him and Sally. However she just grinned maliciously. 

“Maybe so, but there’s more to it you know,” she said.

“What can you possibly mean by that?” John said, getting more and more irritated. Sherlock swallowed and tried to find a way out but there was nothing. 

“I mean I noticed something recently,” she said, acting innocent. “That Sherlock does. It happens quite a lot actually.”

“Yeah, well, he does a lot of things and I’m not too keen on your interpretation of them so if you don’t mind,” John gestured towards the exit and began ushering Sherlock that way but Donovan just laughed loudly. 

“Oh I think you will be, I confirmed it with him earlier this week, you should have seen his face.”

And then John’s blood ran cold, because he had seen his face, and the man had looked vulnerable and devastated and Sally was about to reveal whatever that was in front of the  
whole crime scene. He felt Sherlock freeze beside him.

“Please,” Sherlock begged quietly, his voice heavy but Sally was enjoying her success too much. John walked right up to her to shut her up before she said anything but that simply provoked her more. 

“Sherlock’s in love with you, John!” she cackled and the John froze. Every pair of eyes on that crime scene except for John’s turned to Sherlock who stood with his head hung and coat flapping around him. He swallowed thickly but couldn’t bear to look at anyone, least of all John. He was certain that this was the end of their adventures together.  
John was fuming. His chest rose and fell and rage thundered in his eyes and anger billowed red through his cheeks. 

“How dare you!” he screamed, watching her visibly flinch. “You are a cold-hearted, manipulative bitch and you will never, ever say one bad word about Sherlock again.”

With these words he turned and pulled Sherlock’s face to his, slamming their lips together without a second thought. For a moment Sherlock was too shocked to respond, but then his lips moved against John’s and his hands snaked their way around his waist and pulled him closer. When they eventually broke apart Sherlock buried his face in John’s neck.  
“I love you too, so, so much,” John whispered, running a hand soothingly through Sherlock’s curls. The taller man was still shaking in his arms so John decided in that moment to take him home. How scared Sherlock must have been. Lord knows he probably would have crumpled to the floor had this happened with him. It made his blood boil with fury that Sherlock had had to endure such an awful experience.

“Let’s go home,” he mumbled, bringing Sherlock’s face from his neck so that he could look into those perfect, bright eyes of green, glassy from tears. Sherlock offered a small smile which dislodged a tear and nodded. John slipped his hand into his and left without so much as a glance back at the crime scene.

Sally Donovan never picked on Sherlock again - most likely for fear of her life which was certainly at the mercy of John’s wrath should she say anything. After that there was very little that could separate Sherlock and John, and Mrs Hudson had been over the moon. Lestrade sheepishly admitted that he thought it had happened already. 

John brought Sherlock a cup of tea as they stood by the window, watching London in the dark. Nothing was said, nothing needed to be said. John stood closer to Sherlock than before, resting his head on his right shoulder with closed eyes and enjoying the feeling of Sherlock’s arm around his waist. 

Eventually Sherlock’s voice, deep with tiredness, interrupted their silent moment of moonlight together.

“Sleep?”

John smiled and buried himself further into Sherlock’s embrace.

“Sleep.”


End file.
